Tarantella
by fyren galan
Summary: Nils and Torvald share a quiet moment. SLASH.


**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Henrik Ibsen. I am writing this story for fun and not for profit.  
**_  
_Tarantella

_In the living room, Helmer sits on the sofa, and slowly unpeels a banana. He looks slightly uneasy. The door opens and Krogstad walks in unannounced. He sits in an armchair opposite of Helmer and smiles slightly. Helmer shudders and the banana almost drops from his limp grasp. _

Krogstad: It is almost too warm for spring, is it not?

Helmer _(half rises from the sofa and hisses frantically, whilst glancing at the partially open door)_: What are you _doing_ here, Krogstad? I told you never to come when the children are here!

Krogstad_ (reaches out one hand)_: I know—I apologise. I just had to see you. It was _necessary_, Helmer.

_Their eyes meet, and a flicker of some unknown emotion passes between them. Helmer, unable to stand this seemingly unending exchange, fidgets uncomfortably and looks away. His countenance begins to appear quite flushed, and he tugs uncomfortably at his shirt collar. _

Krogstad _(clears his throat thoroughly)_: It is rather stuffy in here, is it not?

Helmer _(weakly)_: Yes—yes, I think so.

Krogstad: Perhaps we should— _(gestures to his shirt cuffs vaguely)_

Helmer _(even more faintly)_: O! I suppose—yes.

_Simultaneously, they slowly begin unbuttoning their cuffs, rolling up their sleeves until they both reveal pale wrists. The curtain flutters slightly, and Helmer turns to look at the open window. A soft strain of music floats in on the gentle spring breeze. _

Helmer _(inhales sharply)_: Is that—no, it has been so long—it couldn't possibly...

Krogstad _(a little worriedly)_: What is it, Helmer?

Helmer: I think...I still remember the tune. Yes, yes it is. Even though I have not heard it in almost ten years; well, one never forgets the sound of heartache, I suppose. _(He looks around the room, as if realising where he is for the first time.)_ Even in this very room!—O, I can still see her there. On that rug, dancing furiously, violently. It disturbed me. Why didn't I notice the signs? That entire night should have warned me—I should have dealt with it better—

_He lapses into silence, unable to go on, and cradles his head in his hands, hiding his face from view. Krogstad watches helplessly as the music grows louder. An idea slowly dawns on his face; he rises from the armchair and walks toward Helmer._

Helmer _(lifts his head and appears bemused)_: Krogstad, what is this?

Krogstad _(motions to Helmer)_: Up, up! To the piano. Just wait—I will explain later.

_Helmer walks to the piano and sits on the bench, one hand absentmindedly sliding over the keys as he looks at Krogstad questioningly, sorrow still evident in his features._

Krogstad _(begins walking around the room)_: You remember this tune, do you not? In earlier years, you were quite proficient at playing. Your fingers still recall how it goes—let them express themselves.

_Helmer looks down at the piano in some shock, where his fingers are clumsily plunking out the melody of the tarantella. They jerkily pick out the chords for a minute or two, and then transition into smooth playing. He closes his eyes momentarily. _

Krogstad _(breathes out) Yes_, Helmer! Keep playing! Yes, let these memories replace those which cause you so much grief. Let this song bring you new joy instead of the ghosts of old regrets.

_Helmer shifts on the bench and holds Krogstad's steady gaze; the tempo at which he plays quickens a little. Krogstad begins to dance slowly and Helmer's hands falter momentarily. Krogstad raises an eyebrow and continues to dance; Helmer catches himself and glances down at the piano, then back at Krogstad. He plays faster, Krogstad dances faster. The music rises to a frenzy, as does Krogstad's dancing, and then both die away quite suddenly. Helmer shakily gets up from the piano and stares at Krogstad, who is rooted to the ground and breathing heavily. _

Helmer: You would—for me? _(Krogstad nods firmly.)_ O, Krogstad—O, _Nils_!

Krogstad: _Torvald. _

_They both glance towards the open door, smile, and walk quickly out of the room. The music from outside has stopped, but the breeze has picked up. It ruffles the curtains and sends papers scattering across the room. The curtains swell violently for a moment, and then stop. The room is now still, and a light rain begins to come down. A maid comes hurriedly into the living room, and closes the window. _

A/N: Hullo, all! I'm not even going to apologise for being a horrible author and not updating for two years because that wouldn't be good enough. Instead, have this rather awful sequel to _A Doll's House_, which is a wonderful play. I promise that either A Courting of Angau or Scheherazade will be updated within this month! If not, feel free to harass me via PM.


End file.
